we were waiting for each other
by PiperPaigePhoebe01
Summary: Two years later, and Emily fiddles with the medal around her neck. She wonders: Is Damon going to arrive? And if he does, what road will their relationship take? Maybe they can be together like they've always wanted or maybe their chance has passed by...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **So I had to write this. There was no question about it; I had to fix the ending of "All or Nothing." I am really proud of how this turned out, so I hope you like it. The title comes from the song "All This Time" by OneRepublic.

**Summary: **Two years later, and Emily fiddles with the medal around her neck. She wonders: Is Damon going to arrive? And if he does, what road will their relationship take? Maybe they can be together like they've always wanted or maybe their chance has passed by...

* * *

**we were waiting for each other**

Finally, it is two years later.

Emily fiddles with the medal around her neck, turning it over and over in her hands. She looks around at the Parisians going about their daily lives. They pay no attention to her which is a relief after the bombardment she received after stepping off the plane in Paris. It had only been a week since the Olympics, after all, and she was still an international face.

That fact alone was a lot to take in. Emily Kmetko, the girl who learned how to spin and release on a jungle gym, of all places, was now a face everyone knew.

Even now, it blows her mind.

She stands by the Eiffel Tower and looks up, up, and up at the pinnacle. It is the most romantic spot she's ever been in, discounting the Starlight Lounge of years ago. The sun is beating down on her bare shoulders and legs. Even though there are people bustling by her in every direction, it is peaceful. Serene. She feels like a fixed point in time, like she could just stay here forever.

But she can't deny the tightening in her stomach. She feels sick. He was supposed to be here by now, but she's been standing here for twenty minutes and he still hasn't arrived.

She wonders:

Did he change his mind? Did he find someone else? Someone better than her, someone who wouldn't make him wait? Maybe he got sick of waiting, knew that it wouldn't work out, and decided to forget about her. Two years was a long time. She couldn't expect him to wait around forever.

Emily sighs.

He's not coming. She knows he's not coming.

And yet she can't move. She stands near the Eiffel Tower and thinks. She remembers the past two years, all the pain and the struggle and the heartache.

* * *

_She stepped off the bus and into the sunshine. Parents were standing in clumps in front of The Rock. Immediately, Emily saw her mother, standing right in the front, a smile on her face. Emily ran toward her and hugged her tightly. She didn't want to let go. After the events in Paris, she just wanted her mother to tell her everything would be okay (and that was saying a lot, considering Emily's firm independence streak). _

"_Emily," her mother breathed. "Oh, Emily, what brought this on?"_

"_Just... everything," Emily said, not letting go. "I missed you."_

_Her mother's arms tightened around her. "I missed you too," she said. For a moment, they didn't let go and Emily just breathed in her mother's scent: lilac, a hint of rose, nothing too overpowering but nothing nearing subtle either. It was distinctly her mother: flirty and fun with just the merest hint of professionalism. Not that her mother was professional in the slightest, but she often tried to make herself out to be so._

_They had to let go eventually. When they did, Emily's mother looked at her._

"_Are you okay?" she asked.  
_

"_No."_

"_What happened?"_

_Emily didn't want to say. She knew she couldn't say, not with Sasha coming right toward her, a serious expression on his face. If he found out that she had a boyfriend and went to see him at the risk of losing her spot on the France team, he would never be able to look at her the same way again. Their once father-daughter relationship had experienced enough of an obstacle after he found out that she was working at the Pizza Shack. Their relationship couldn't handle another betrayal._

"_I'll tell you later," Emily murmured and withdrew from her mother's arms. She tried to smile. "How's Brian doing?"_

_And just like that, the subject was changed._

_At least it was, until she curled up next to her mother on the couch that night to watch an episode of _Top Chef_ and then go to bed. Her mother hadn't mentioned the France meet all afternoon, even though Emily knew it was killing her to keep her mouth shut. They had sat through dinner quietly, Brian carrying the entire conversation. Her mother chattered on and on with him, but Emily remained silent, poking at her thin chicken breast with her fork._

"_Okay, hon," her mother said about halfway through the episode. "What's going on? You've been completely silent since you got off the bus."_

"_While I was in Calais, I went to see Damon, Mom," Emily said._

Better to say it quickly. Rip off the bandaid.

"_Kaylie was hesitant to let me go at first," Emily continued. "She said we needed to stay focused, get guys out of our heads for the meet. But Lauren started to tell me what would happen if Damon found out that I had been so close and I hadn't seen him, and I just missed him so much, that I had to say goodbye."_

"_Did you say goodbye?"_

_"I tried," Emily said, "but Damon wasn't as willing."_

_Emily told her mother the entire story, beginning to end. She told her about meeting up with Damon, their kiss, and their goodbye. She told her about the one-way ticket Lauren had given her and the way that Emily was resigned to performing cheap tricks in the lobby to get a ticket back to Calais. And then there was Austin Tucker, who had only bought her the ticket in exchange for a full twist. _

_And then there was the reason why she was replaced by Lauren._

_In hindsight, she should have expected Lauren's ploy: of course she would try to get her spot, of course she would do anything to do so, of course she would play with Emily's emotions. Of course she would not even consider the effects of her actions._

_Emily tried to get the next words out. She told her mother about her frustration, how she had almost thrown a fit in the gymnastics training room, and how Damon had come to her._

_She told her about the plan they had formulated._

* * *

Emily sighs.

That was exactly the problem.

She had made those plans with Damon two years ago. A lot had changed in two years. Those plans of the Eifffel Tower and their reconciliation were 730 days ago. Her life had been different then, when all she had going for her was her spot on the Nationals team (and that was hanging by a thread). And Damon... well, Damon was just kicking off his musical career.

And now she is clutching her Olympic medal in her hands, waiting for Damon to arrive from the last spot on his US tour.

Even though she hadn't seen him for two years, she had heard much about him. Ever since his first tour with Green Day, his fame and popularity just kept growing. He was especially popular in England and, once he returned to the United States, he immediately got a record deal. Emily still remembers going into the CD store in Boulder, looking around nervously, picking up the CD Damon had recorded, clutching it tight to her chest after she paid for it. She remembers the tears that streamed down her cheeks as she listened to Damon's voice.

At that point, she hadn't heard it for six months.

* * *

_She couldn't deny it, she thought as she shut the door behind her. She regretted her decision to let go of Damon, at least for the time being. All she wanted was for his arms to circle around her once more, for his hands to burn a brand through her cheeks, for his kiss to light a fire deep in her heart and through her entire body. She just wanted to hear his voice, to know that he was there._

_She wiped a tear from her eye as she slid the CD into her laptop. Damon's deep voice, all silk and honey, filled her ears. He sang of her—"girl with fire in her heart / dreams of a future so bright / can I join her? / I wish I could / but it's not meant to be"—and their dreams. The song she heard him singing that night nine months ago was the second track on the album and she played it over and over again, letting his voice fill her ears. The tears fell down her cheeks steadily as she listened to the rest of the album._

_The aching in her chest throbbed. She was fine with their decision when she looked at it from a distance or when she was practicing. She understood it when she was spinning through the air on the uneven bars or when she was exhibiting a perfect full twist on the balance beam. When her dream was in sight, she knew that they did the right thing._

_But it was a completely different matter when she was alone. When she was alone, she had no distractions—and she could just miss him._

_She curled up in bed late at night, just letting the memories wash over her. Their first meeting at the party, a sweater covering the blue dress currently folded in the bottom of her dresser, and another boy between them, introducing them to each other. Their confrontation at the Pizza Shack, Dr. Phil and manhate and all. Their first kiss, over and done with before she even had time to blink. The runway show, Emily's newfound confidence as she strutted down the stage, Damon's eyes burning a hole through her own as she stared at him. The way he looked at her when he bought the outfit, when their hands brushed as they made a pizza together, the way his face dropped when Emily brushed off his gift. Every moment flashed by her—kisses and arguments and sadness and late-night trips to the Rock—and she had to stifle her sobs._

_She missed him so much._

_So damn much._

"_Emily?" her mother called. "Are you all right?"_

_Emily wiped the tears from her eyes and paused Damon's CD. She removed the buds from her ears, then waited a few seconds in order to compose herself. One deep breath, two. She wiped the tears from her eyes._

"_Yeah, I'm fine," she said, voice thankfully steady._

_"Are you sure?" her mother asked._

"_Positive," Emily called back. "Don't worry so much!"_

"_Well, if you're sure," she said. "I'm going to go out with Steve tonight. Are you going to be okay ordering pizza and eating with Brian tonight?"  
_

"_Sounds fine," Emily said. "Have fun."_

"_I will," she said. "Bye, Emily."_

_And then she was gone, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts._

_She played the CD again and let Damon's voice surround her. She drifted off, thinking of him, and didn't bother wiping the tears from her cheeks._

_Just five minutes. Five minutes of wallowing and then she'd get up, put on her game face, and laugh with Brian as they waited for their pizza to arrive. Five minutes and she'd play that computer game with Brian. She'd eat some pizza, vow to work it off, and then slide into bed and sleep._

_And in the morning, she'd wake up and go to practice and pretend everything was just fine._

* * *

She paces along the ground in front of the Eiffel Tower, unable to contain her anxiety. She glances at the watch on her wrist, then groans when she realizes only a few minutes have passed since she last looked at it. She wonders what's taking him so long.

"Hey, little lady," someone says to her. She turns around to see an old man standing there. "What are you doing here all alone?"

His English is accented deeply, and it takes a minute for her to understand. But then she smiles.

"I'm waiting for someone," she responds.

"Ah, _je vois_," the man says. "A boy?"

Emily smiles. "_Oui, un garcon_," she says, thanking the French version of Rosetta Stone. "We were supposed to meet here forty minutes ago, but he's late."

"I hope he comes soon," the man responds. "A girl like you is too pretty to be left alone for long."

"_Merci_," Emily says, a blush staining her cheeks.

"I'm just speaking the truth," the man says. "I hope you find whoever you're looking for. It was nice meeting you. _Au revoir! Bonne chance_!"

"_Merci_," Emily calls after him as he turns and walks away.

She's left alone.

Where is he?

She can't help it. Her thoughts spiral out of control and her hand tightens on the medal strung around her neck. What if he doesn't come? She wouldn't blame him; two years in the music industry had to have made an impact somewhere. Maybe he decided that he didn't want to wait and it wasn't fair for him to do so. Maybe it was all over for them already, and Damon was somewhere with a fiancee or a girlfriend or _someone. _And he had forgotten all about her.

She had waited two years for nothing.

The thought is almost too much to handle.

She takes a breath, then sits down at one of the benches just outside of the Eiffel Tower. She puts her head in her hands, tries to blink the tears away.

"Emily?"

Her head snaps up.

And there he is.

She blinks once, twice, and three times, hardly believing her eyes. He's changed _so much _in two years. She hardly recognizes him with his slightly-longer-than-before dark hair and leather jacket and blue jeans. He doesn't look like the boy in the Pizza Shack uniform anymore; he looks like a _rock star_, for lack of any better way to term it. He looks grown up, part of his own dream, living what he's always wanted.

She swallows, then stands up. "Damon," she breathes.

"Emily," Damon says again and then, in a second, sweeps Emily up in his arms.

Emily wraps her arms around Damon's neck, nestling into his embrace. He feels so _solid _and _warm. _He smells just like she remembers him: soap and leather. His arms are strong, pulling her close to him, rubbing her back soothingly. She just wants to stay here forever in this moment: he came, he's here, and he's holding her like he hasn't held her for two whole years.

"I missed you," she whispers. "God, I missed you."

"I missed you too," Damon says. His lips press against her forehead and the touch sends shocks spiralling through her body.

They pull away from each other eventually. Damon looks down at the medal swinging from her neck and his smile grows. She didn't think it was possible for it to grow even more, but it did. And her stomach turns over at the sight of it.

God, she's missed him.

"I knew it," he says. "I knew you'd come home with gold."

* * *

"_Good luck," Kaylie whispered in Emily's ear as she warmed up for her last event in the all-around competition: the uneven bars._

_That apparatus was both her kryptonite and her secret weapon. She knew it. Sometimes—most of the time, really—the bars were her strongest apparatus. She loved spinning through the air, releasing, gathering air, catching the bar again. She loved moving from one bar to another, up and down, over and under, just letting her body be free. She loved releasing at the very end of the routine, spinning, twisting in the air and then landing strong and sure on her feet._

_But then she doubted herself._

_When she doubted herself, the bars were her second-worst enemy (following the vault, of course). When she felt insecure, the bars terrified her. She just knew, deep in her gut, that she was going to fall. She was going to fail and it would be all her fault that she didn't win the gold. _

_She couldn't feel insecure._

_Confidence, she told herself. Confidence and you've got this._

"You better be wearing gold."_  
_

_Damon's words rang through her head. _You better be wearing gold. You better be wearing gold. You better be wearing gold.

"_You've got this," Payson said, hugging Emily tightly. Emily returned the hug, Damon's words ringing in her head, her heart beating inside her chest. _

"_And now Emily Kmetko on the uneven bars," the announcer said._

_Emily withdrew from Payson's hug, whispering her thanks. She stretched—one arm pulled across her body, nested in the crook of the other arm. She switched arms and let them fall to her side, then headed over to the chalk bin. She removed a good amount of chalk from the box and rubbed it on her hands and wrists, along the protective wrap covering her hands. Then she coated her feet in the chalk surrounding the box, took a deep breath, and walked up to the blue mat._

_She raised her arms above her head. This was it. Her last chance at Olympic gold, and she was not going to let anything—or anyone—stand in her way._

_She smiled and let herself fly._

–

_They stood together in a group. Emily had her friends surrounding her: Kaylie on her left, holding her hand; Payson on her right, holding her other hand; and Lauren next to Payson. They didn't say a word to each other, but they all knew what they hoped for._

"_And the bronze goes to—and this was close, only two-tenths of a point separating them—Payson Keller on the United States team!"_

_Payson's jaw dropped as the entire United States team, alternates and all, erupted into cheers, along with the entire room full of people. Sure, everyone had already known that Payson would be taking the bronze—it was only a question of silver and gold—but it was something else entirely to hear it said in front of some of the best gymnasts in the entire world and know that she had done it, that she had overcome all the odds._

"_Oh, God, Pay," Kaylie said and hugged Payson tightly, Lauren and Emily joining in a few moments later. "This is amazing."_

_"I can't believe this," Payson said. _

"_Well, you better believe it," Lauren said. "Congratulations!"_

_And Emily hugged Payson once more before she walked up to the raised platform and stepped onto the lowest one. She started to wave at everyone, an infectious smile on her face._

"_Good for you, Pay," Emily whispered._

"_The silver goes to long-time Chinese champion, Ya-Wen Chen!"_

_And that left the gold._

_It seemed to take forever for Ya-Wen Chen to make her way to the second-highest platform and take her spot there. It seemed to take another decade for the announcer to finally get around to what everyone was interested in hearing: the all-around champion._

"_And, finally, after hours of stiff competition, it is the moment you all have waited for." There was a pause. "The winner of the 2012 Olympics, the all-around gymnastics champion, is Rock member..." Another pause, atmosphere highly charged. "Emily Kmetko!"_

_Emily took her place on the highest pedestal, scanning the crowd for her mother. She was there, cheering and grinning as loud as she could, Brian right beside her. She smiled and waved and couldn't believe this was happening to her, the girl who had learned how to do gymnastics on a playground. All of her hard work... it had paid off._

_But there was something missing._

_Or some_one_ missing rather._

_Damon._

* * *

"You did," Emily responds, shaking herself out of her memories. She smiles up at him, not removing her arms from around his neck.

After so much time without him, she isn't sure she ever wants to let go, and judging from the way Damon's arms tighten around her waist, she is sure that he isn't too fond of letting go either. He looks down at her, removing one arm from her waist to push a lock of hair behind her ear.

"You are amazing," he says. "Olympic champion, you."

Emily smiles. "Like you're one to talk," she says. "You're the one who has the bestselling album and two tours under their belt. Not to mention numerous fangirls."

"And you went to the Olympics," Damon retorts. "Not too many people can claim that."

"Not many people can claim that they toured with Green Day either."

Emily is struck by how _easy _this whole thing is. While she was waiting, she was worried that it would be awkward, that they wouldn't know what to say to each other. But there is nothing of that awkwardness in that conversation. It is like no time has passed. They can just tease each other and laugh and talk, like two years haven't passed and Emily hasn't won an Olympic medal and Damon hasn't reached platinum on his first album.

She finds herself relieved, but also—what does it mean? Where are they going from here?

"No, not too many people can," Damon says. "I guess we're just two unusual people then."

"Yes, we are."

Emily tries not to look at him, not because she doesn't want to, but because she's worried that if she looks at him too long—or if their gazes meet—she won't be able to stop herself from curling her hands through his hair and kissing him hard. A lot has changed in two years, and trust her when she says that hormones don't go away. They're almost controlling, but not quite. As long as she doesn't look at him.

"Let's go somewhere," Damon whispers in her ear. "I wouldn't want anyone recognizing the Olympic champion and crying for an autograph and interrupting our time." He smiles at her. "I want you all to myself."

She feels warm. "Okay."

–

The scene seems familiar to her. She and Damon sit together on a blanket in a clear spot in the center of Paris, a picnic basket between them. A baguette, pieces torn from it, lies on a paper towel in front of them. Two thermoses of water are also between them, along with Damon's leather jacket and Emily's own light jacket. The Parisian sun beats down on Emily's back and she stares at Damon. Just the same as the event two years ago, where they almost said goodbye, but didn't.

There lies the difference.

This isn't a goodbye. She knows it's not.

But what is this?

"What are you going to do now?" Damon asks, almost as though he's read her mind.

"I'm not sure," Emily admits. He's the only one she can admit this to: that she doesn't know what to do. "I'm thinking about doing some recreational meets, you know, just for fun. After that, I might go back to school for something—help people like my brother deal with their injury."

"Sounds great," Damon says. "So no more competitions?"

"No serious ones." She looks at Damon. "And you?"

"Well, I'm going to take a couple of months off, just to write music and have fun," Damon says. "After that, I'll be back in the recording studio for my second album. Everyone's waiting for it."

Emily nods. "Of course they are."

There's a few seconds of silence: What do their plans mean for their relationship? Does this mean that they can have a relationship?

"I have to ask," Damon burst out. "Do you have anyone else... you know, waiting for you?"

Emily laughs. "Like Sasha would ever allow that." She smiles and reaches across to take Damon's hand, looking him in the eye. "To answer the question you're not asking, just dancing around, no, there's no one. No boyfriends. I'm single. What about you?"

Her stomach tightens. She has to ask, but she's not sure that she wants to know the answer.

"There were a few dates... but nothing serious," Damon reassures her.

"Yeah," Emily says. "Same here."

She doesn't want to say that the reason there haven't been more than a few dates is primarily because of him, not because of Kaylie's "promise ring" idea or Sasha's rule, but it's true.

* * *

_Austin's lips moved against her own as he pushed her against the wall. Emily responded, wrapping her arms around his neck, but—it felt wrong. His hair was too short, his shoulders too wide. His kiss was too hard, not soft and sweet nor passionate and demanding like Damon's were. This kiss was passionate in a different way, a way that made Emily feel the slightest bit uncomfortable._

_She pulled away._

"_No," she said. "No, we can't do this."_

"_Why not?" Austin asked. He pressed his lips to hers. "We're both single, aren't we?"_

_"Yeah, but I'm not your type," Emily said. _And you're not mine. _"Besides, we're breaking the rules. This can't happen again."_

"_You've broken the rules before."_

"_With someone I loved," Emily said fiercely. "I'm sorry, this was fine while it lasted, but this isn't right. We're not ever going to be together and even coming here was a mistake."_

_She turned and walked away, back toward the door to the lakehouse where Payson, Lauren, and Kaylie were waiting. She wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to forget the longing she had for another pair of lips and another pair of arms that would wrap around her and tell her everything would be okay. She tried to forget that she longed for Damon, an ocean away._

* * *

"Damon," Emily says after a few seconds. "What does this mean?"

"What do you want it to mean?" Damon asks.

"You told me two years ago that this wasn't goodbye," Emily says. "You told me that we would meet again and decide where we were going from there. So we're here." She meets his eyes. "Damon, two years ago, what did you want to happen?"

Damon takes a piece of bread from the paper towel and starts tearing it into pieces. "I know that I didn't want it to be the end for us. I wanted us to last." The pieces of bread accumulate in front of him. "Our relationship was not over... and it's still not over. Not if you don't want it to be."

Emily nods.

It was time to take the plunge, stop being such a coward, and tell him how she felt.

"Damon Young," she began. "I don't want it to be over."

"Me either."

Emily nods. "Let me finish." She moves around the blanket until she is sitting right beside Damon, then she turns his face to look at her. She puts her hands on his shoulders. "Two years ago, I thought it was over, but I didn't want it to be. And this meeting—I wasn't sure it would happen, but I knew I wanted it to. And I knew that if I didn't, I would regret letting you go for the rest of my life."

Two fingers rise up, slide down Damon's face. "I was so worried you wouldn't come, but here you are. Here we are." She smiles. "So much has changed, but one thing hasn't."

"And what's that?" Damon asks.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you too," Damon says without any hesitance, softness filling his eyes. He stops playing with the bits of bread and just stares at her.

Emily smiles so wide and feels like her heart is going to combust. "Well, then," she says. "I guess we're not going to have to say goodbye again."

"Sorry," Damon breathes against her lips. "I won't let you say goodbye."

"Good."

Damon smiles along with her. They stare at each other, then Emily cups Damon's face in her hands—what a turnaround, she thinks—and presses her lips to his. And _oh, God. _The shock waves that run through her are exquisite and, all at once, she can't get enough of the kiss. She presses herself close to him, moves her lips with his, lets her body's natural rhythm take over. More than ever, it's like they've never parted. Damon's hand twines itself in her curled hair and pulls her head closer to his.

Her mouth opens of its own accord and the kiss turns more passionate. It's deeper. She puts everything in the kiss. Their separation, her longing, their love, their memories, and their fulfilled dreams... everything comes back around to Damon, her love for him, and his love for her.

Nothing can be wrong with Damon's lips on hers.

Nothing could be better.

Except for _maybe..._ Emily lets a sound—a moan?—escape her lips as Damon's tongue swipes against hers. She loses herself in the sensations and lets herself _feel. _She loses herself in the kiss, in Damon, but somehow—miraculously—she's never felt more in control.

Two years later, and everything's the way it should be.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you liked this, please review. I'd really appreciate it. Also, when you review, please tell me: Would you be interested in me writing this story from Damon's POV? As a continuing chapter? Thanks for your opinions!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks go out to **Maiqu**, **HoldingontohopE**, **Kia Halliwell**, **jennateluvr87**, **KarriLena86**, **zvforever**, **jen **(anon), **kfstumber**, **animeaddict2323232**, **miobilover **(anon), and **listenWITHyourHEART **for reviewing.

And, as promised, here's Damon's POV...

* * *

The night before drags on and on.

Even though it's his last spot on his United States tour, he feels oddly subdued. He strums on the guitar in the middle of the stage, mellow, playing his softer songs toward the end. He lets the music speak for him, the melodies filling the theater. The audience sings along with him and sways back and forth, the lights from their phones moving with them.

He knows why he's not as energetic as usual.

It's her. It's always been her and, like it or not, it always _will _be her.

She makes him want to be better. It's partly her fault that he's up on stage right now, living his dream. Without her, perhaps he never would have gathered the courage to sing in front of people. She's changed him and she doesn't even know it anymore, he bets. She's off living her own dream and doesn't realize what an impact she still has in his life. She doesn't know that he still hasn't gone a day without thinking of her. Knowing her, she's just as strong as ever and she's moved on. She's not the type to pine.

But he is. He's a musician; they're practically _meant _to pine. That's why his music is so good: he pours everything into it, all of his longing and his waiting and the love they shared for such a short amount of time before it all disintegrated. He lets himself feel as he sings. He feels _everything._

By the time he's done with the last song on his setlist, he's near tears.

"That was for you, Emily," he whispers away from the microphone as he strums the last chords in his guitar. When he turns back to the microphone, he smiles and says the usual: _new album coming out in January of 2013, go out and buy it, thanks for being such a wonderful audience. _

He waits for the applause then makes his way off the stage. He makes it to the room converted into his dressing room, collapsing onto the couch there.

He closes his eyes.

And he thinks.

* * *

_When he saw her in the theater that day, he couldn't believe his eyes. He had been singing about her, the distance between them and the pain that he still felt, and then there was applause as he paused in his playing. His head snapped up and he saw someone moving toward him._

_He couldn't believe it._

_It was _her.

_It was almost like he was dreaming, the way he threaded his hands through her hair and pulled her toward him, kissing her as hard as he could, putting everything into that kiss: all the longing and the waiting and the _need _for her that nearly bowled him over some nights. Her hands wrapped around his neck, fingers stroking the hair found there, and then she moved her hands to his waist, pulling him closer, as close as they could possibly get to each other._

_Everything was falling into place. Emily had found her way back to him. She didn't want him out of her life at all and she still loved him. She came to Paris to see him and, judging from the way she pressed herself ever closer to him, she wanted to be as near to him as possible._

_He should've known by that sign alone, he thought as he sat on the blanket in the middle of a clear spot in Paris. The desperation in the kiss was not just because of their absence._

_It was because she knew she was going to have to say goodbye._

_The sun warmed his back, his shoulders, his face, but he didn't feel warm. He felt cold as Emily's eyes bored into his own. She spoke to him about dreams—she wanted him to have it all, it wasn't fair for him to stay holed up two years waiting for her, they had to say goodbye in order for them both to really have their dreams come true—and then..._

"_Say it. Say it _first._" Emily's voice broke. "For me. I can't do it."_

_He felt the tears. They lingered at the corners of his vision. He couldn't bring himself to speak, couldn't even bring himself to look at Emily. He knew what he would see: her eyes, full of her own tears, but strong and determined. She knew what she had to do, but Damon didn't know that he had to say goodbye. He didn't _want _to say goodbye, damn it, and it wasn't fair for her to ask him to._

_But at the same time, it wasn't fair to try and make it work when he couldn't even come up with a viable way to keep their relationship alive._

_Objections to her words spiraled through his mind but none of them were spoken._

_Maybe she was right._

_He met her eyes and spoke._

"_Goodbye, Emily Kmetko."_

_And her own voice, soft and broken: "Goodbye, Damon Young."_

_She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his one more time. He tasted salt from her tears, the cherry taste of her Chapstick, and then the pressure was gone. He didn't even have a chance to say anything else before she stood up, gathered her bag, and started to walk away._

_Five steps down the hill and she stopped._

_He allowed himself to hope, but then it was gone as Emily continued on her way._

* * *

Damon opens his eyes. He half-expects to still be sitting on the hill, watching her walk away from him, but he's not. He's still in his dressing room after his last concert. It is 2012 and he's less than twenty-four hours away from seeing Emily once more.

That is, if she shows up.

He remembers the last conversation he had with her like it was yesterday when it was, in reality, two years ago. He still hears the bang as he made his way to the gymnastics training room. He still sees Emily on the floor, falling apart. He feels her arms around him, feels the way her body shook as he held her in his arms, whispering words of comfort in her ear. Her hair felt like silk beneath his fingers, soft and shiny, and her body was strangely fragile in his hands.

It was at that very moment, Damon knows, that he realized that he would not let this girl—this gorgeous, sometimes frustrating, always intoxicating girl—get away from him.

She was his, for as long as she wanted him, and she still wanted him.

So he came up with the idea: Two years later, they would meet in Paris under the Eiffel Tower and decide if they wanted it to be goodbye. If they didn't... well, they would go from there. If they had found someone else (and Damon never thought he would, still doesn't think he could find anyone better than her), then they'd figure out where to go from there. And if they didn't find anyone else...

They would pick up where they left off.

Damon tries to smile, but he can't. He wonders: Has she found anyone else? What if she has? If he goes all the way to Paris to find out that she's not there, he's not sure what he will do. He has a feeling that his music would take a decided turn for the "emo" if she never shows up.

He won't blame her if she doesn't, of course, because she has better things going on in her life.

He hates to admit it to himself, but he _knows _that Emily doesn't need him.

The only problem is that he needs her. She kept away from him for those two years—those agonizing 730 days—but he couldn't. Ever since that night in Calais, with Emily crying on his shoulder, he had followed her life from a distance, so agonizingly far away that it pained him every time he heard something new about her.

* * *

_One month after their last meeting in Calais, Damon couldn't take it anymore._

_He knew that Emily was in Boulder, living her dream. He hadn't heard anything—where would he hear something?—but he felt the lack of her presence even more strongly than before. When he first started his tour, he figured Emily was ready to let him go, and he was ready to get over her. Now he knew that Emily had feelings for him and was willing to wait two years for him. _

_The lack of news was almost killing him._

_That night, right after his part in the Green Day concert, he entered his hotel room and sat down on his bed. He pulled out his laptop and got on the Internet, searching._

Rocky Mountain Gymnastics Training Center_, he typed in and pressed Enter._

_Immediately, the site came up and he clicked on it. The dark blue of the banner—"Rocky Mountain Gymnastics Training Center"—appeared automatically and below it, the site proclaimed that it was the "proud home of National champion, Kaylie Cruz." He ignored that, wishing that the site proclaimed that it was the proud home of Emily Kmetko, and clicked on the recent events link._

_The first blog entry he saw detailed the floor routine competition that happened just that Monday. His chest tightened—with what? Want, need, desire, longing, wishing—and he skimmed._

"_Lauren Tanner, while as powerful as ever, didn't seem to have the finesse she normally did … she impressed her father, Steve Tanner, currently running for the president of the parents' board, but she got lower scores than usual … Kaylie Cruz, meanwhile, was just as strong as we've come to expect … her routine was harder than usual; she seems to be going for the more graceful moves which perhaps would work for her better if she was smaller like some of the Chinese gymnasts, but as a whole, she's holding onto her title well..."_

_Finally, his eyes caught hold of Emily's name._

"_As for Emily Kmetko, she has become someone to watch. From the stubborn girl we saw at that first Rock meet, she has come into her own. Her leotard was shabbier than the rest, plain red with silver embroideries, but she shone brighter than any of them. She is by no means an artistic gymnast, but she commanded the floor with a graceful elegance unseen by her before. Her tumbles were perfectly executed. I was shocked at how complex they were, considering the last time we saw her floor routine. It seems as though this is the breakthrough we've been waiting for. Everyone can't wait to see what Miss Emily Kmetko will do next!"_

_Damon smiled. He knew she would be successful. From the very first time he saw her, he knew that she was special. There was just something about her, something that couldn't be defined. Shy, yet somehow bold. Confident, but insecure. She had a secret then, but now she doesn't._

_He liked to think he had caused some of those changes in her._

_He continued to read the blog entries. He read all about the Rockie Awards (though he skimmed those) and reached the "Battle of the Flexes," as they were apparently calling it. There were pictures in the latter entry, of Kaylie and Lauren and Carter and a new guy named Austin, but he only noticed Emily's pictures as she concentrated on the parallel bars._

_She was beautiful._

* * *

Damon decides that it's enough with the moping. He's done enough of it in the past two years and it's time to put it behind him. Of course, he's told himself this several times in the past two years—even several times in the past two _hours—_but it's different now. He's less than twenty-four hours away from seeing her, so there's no need to go around, wishing that things could have been different.

Things can be different now and he supposes that's what matters in the end.

Damon stands up, ready to head to the airport, when someone sticks their head in the doorway.

"Sorry for interrupting," his agent, Bart, says, "but we're ready to leave now. If we're going to make it to the airport in time, we're going to have to sneak out the back door." He smiles. "No autographs tonight, buddy."

Damon grins. "Such a disaster," he says. "How will I ever survive without hordes of fangirls falling over my every word?"

"No clue," he responds. "I'm stunned that you haven't tapped some of that."

"Well, let's just say I have someone else in mind."

"I know," Bart says, making his way out of the dressing room. Damon follows. "Every fan of yours knows of that Emily girl. You're breaking their young hearts, you know."

"Oh, yes," Damon says. "They won't be able to survive."

"That's honestly not an exaggeration for some," Bart says. He reaches the door leading outside first, shoving it open, revealing the hazy, humid night.

Damon doesn't respond—he knows it's not, but he doesn't particularly care—and steps into the night. The car that's taking him to the airport is idling a few feet away, the driver slumping slightly in his seat. Damon turns to look at Bart who claps him on the shoulder.

"All right, then," he says. "I hope you know what you're doing, going to Paris to meet this girl."

"Believe me, I do," Damon responds.

"And you better be back in the States soon," Bart says. "I don't want you to take too much time away from starting your new album."

"I won't," Damon reassures. "I'll have plenty of ideas after I come back."

Although he doesn't know whether they'll be happy, ecstatic, due to his reconciliation with her, or depressed and "emo" due to their separation. Either way, there will be inspiration, but he knows which album he'd rather write and record.

"Good," Bart says. "That's my man."

And he pats Damon on the back. Damon laughs and opens the door of the car, sliding into the passenger seat. He waves to Bart as the driver shakes off his exhaustion and sits up straight. He puts the car into gear and makes his way out of the alley, leaving Bart behind them. Damon leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, hardly believing what was occurring.

In about half an hour, he'd be on a plane to France. In a few hours, he'd be in Paris, France, for the first time in two years, and he'd be waiting for Emily.

He smiles and leans his head against the window.

"You seem happy," the driver comments.

"I wouldn't say I'm happy, exactly," Damon says, "but I'm... hopeful."

"Really?" The driver glances in Damon's direction, then turns his head back to the road. "Why are you so hopeful?"

"I'm going to France," he says.

"City of dreams?"

A smile plays around the corners of Damon's mouth. "You could say that."

"I went to Paris once," the driver comments. "It was wonderful. I've never been anywhere so wonderful and I don't think I ever will again." He turns onto a main road. "Do you have a specific reason for going to France? Or is it just a vacation?"

"I'm meeting a girl," Damon says.

"The one you sing about?"

Every time Damon says this, that he's meeting a girl, everyone has the same reaction: Is this the girl you keep singing about? Damon wonders if he's an open book, but then, if he is, he hopes Emily's listening. That way, she knows he still cares for her and wants to be with her. He knows that the years have passed by and life has changed, but one thing hasn't: he is still head-over-heels in love with her.

Sure, there were other girls, he's a guy, after all, but none of them have compared to her. No one _can _compare to Emily and he's not ashamed to admit it.

He's not ashamed to admit that there's only one girl for him.

* * *

"_Come on," Danielle said. "Let's get out of here."_

_Damon pulled away as Danielle leaned in for a kiss. She looked hurt—crushed, to be honest—but Damon couldn't bring himself to care overly much. He just knew that he _couldn't. _Not when he wanted to call her by another name as her lips met his. Not when he wanted someone else to be asking him to "get out of here." Not when he missed Emily so much that it was still an ache._

"_I can't," Damon said._

"_Oh, you can," Danielle said. "It's just you and me, isn't it?"_

"_No, it's not," Damon said._

_Danielle's face screwed up in confusion. She glanced around at the people milling around the room they currently occupied. "Oh, are you talking about these people?" she inquired. "They're not paying attention to us." She pressed herself closer to him. "It's fine."_

"_You don't understand," Damon said, taking a few steps away from Danielle. "There's—"_

_He stopped, because talking about Emily, even a year and a half later, was still painful._

_Danielle paused to think and Damon knew that she had caught on when her face cleared up. The light in her eyes went out._

"_Oh," she whispered. "There's someone else, isn't there?"_

_"I'm sorry," Damon said._

_Danielle looked like she was about to cry at any moment, but she swallowed the tears back and nodded. She tried to smile._

"_It's okay," she said. "I understand. You have to follow your heart."_

_"Yeah."_

"_Is she—is she really special?"_

_Damon couldn't help smiling. "She's the most special girl in the entire world."_

"_Good." Danielle kissed Damon on the cheek. "Good to meet you," she said. "You're just as kind and sweet as I imagined you'd be. That girl is lucky to have you."_

_And she put her hand on Damon's arm, lifted it, and retreated back into the crowd, leaving Damon alone._

* * *

The next morning, he wakes up, blurry-eyed, from a sleep that is more like flashbacks than anything: his first meeting with Emily, their first encounter at the Pizza Shack, their first kiss. Him buying her outfit at the fashion show. The CD. Sneaking into the Rock. Every moment—the slow process of falling in love with Emily Kmetko—seemed to have flashed through his mind.

His subconsciousness was rather extraordinary sometimes, Damon figures, but he wishes it wasn't quite so spot-on. Then he would've gotten some sleep.

He wakes up late in the morning—11:30, to be exact—and he has a song in his head that just has to get out. He doesn't even bother getting out of bed. He just reaches over to his bedside table—he's prepared, he's always prepared—and grabs his pen and notepad.

He's so caught up in his songwriting that he doesn't notice the time ticking away. He only looks up after he grows frustrated with a particularly sticky part of the lyrics—how can he express the magic of the first "I love you" in words that aren't cliched as all hell?—and bolts out of bed as he looks at the clock:

1:20 PM.

He's been at it for almost two whole hours—and he's late for his meeting for Emily.

"Damn it!" he curses. Trust him to screw up this meeting.

He throws on whatever happens to be packed on top of his suitcase—jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket—and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't have time to do anything else; he runs out of his hotel room, waits impatiently for the elevator to reach the lobby, and bolts out of the hotel. He is thankful that he had the foresight to rent a car last night, even though he was absolutely exhausted when he arrived in the Paris airport, because it means he doesn't have to wait for anyone.

He slides into his rental car, jams the keys in the ignition, and nearly speeds on his way to the Eiffel Tower to meet Emily.

Or at least he _tries _to speed.

He's foiled in his plans by the sudden traffic jam in front of him, which seems to stretch on for several cars. It's just his luck that just when he absolutely needs to get somewhere as fast as he possibly can that things slow down to a snail's pace.

He sighs and flicks on the radio. He doesn't understand anything, because it's a French music station, but it doesn't matter. It's only for background music so he doesn't die of boredom while waiting for the traffic jam to clear up.

The waiting doesn't help his nerves.

He's sure she's not going to show up. Why would she? And, besides, even if she _did_, he strongly doubts she'd wait twenty-five minutes for him to arrive. That doesn't stop him hoping, though. He tries desperately to hold back his road rage (can't they see he has somewhere to be?).

The car in front of him moves.

One space.

At least it's better than nothing.

The line of cars in front of him inches forward, one car space at a time, and the longer it takes, the more he's sure that Emily's not there. He's ruined his chances and it's not even his own damn fault. It's the stupid traffic and it _needs to move faster._

"Come _on_," he urges.

Finally something seems to go right. There is a fork in the road just ahead and the Eiffel Tower looms up in front of him. He lets out a sigh of relief and turns down the nearly empty road. He's able to actually _drive_, although it's still crowded, and parks close to the Eiffel Tower.

He only just remembers to lock up the car before he runs down to the Eiffel Tower. A group of people are bustling around the Eiffel Tower, but there is someone sitting on the bench several feet in front of it. Her head is held in her hands and she is hunched up in a ball. Her brown hair is curled and a glint of gold appears between her arms.

She's here.

"Emily?"

Her head snaps up and the gold medal around her neck swings free. He was there when she got that medal, but she doesn't know that. He's the only one that does. He just knew that the Olympics were coming around and he couldn't stay away. He just couldn't.

He had to see her fulfill her dream.

He knows now that it goes deeper than that: he wanted to know that him giving her up was worth it and he did. He saw that during the Olympics—and he still sees it now.

* * *

_He watched the entire competition. It took a bit—okay, a lot—of wheedling in order to get Bart to let him go for the days the competition was occurring. He did get permission, thankfully. It fit in with his schedule: he had one concert the night before he got on a plane for London, and the night after the last competition, he has a concert. And then there are nearly constant concerts until the night he needs to get on a plane to meet Emily in France. He knew he'd be exhausted after everything he has in the next week, but he told Bart that he could handle it, and he can._

_As long as he could see Emily._

_She never knew he was there, but he didn't care. He realized that it was better that way. If she didn't know that he was there, he couldn't distract her. She needed no distractions if she was going to win gold and, on the last night of competition, the all-arounds, he saw that she was within spitting distance of the medal._

_Her first event on that last night was the vault. Emily had always had trouble with the fault; he remembered she told him that during one of their many nights working together in the Pizza Shack. She hated blind landings—"I just can't stand not knowing where I'm going to land"—and yet, he was sure that her vault move would be one of those blind landings._

_He was right. She stepped up to the chalk bin in her red and white leotard and spread some chalk on her hands and feet, then she walked to the start of the vault track. He waited, hardly breathing, as she ran for the vault. She punched onto the springboard, twisting in the air, landed on the vault for the briefest of seconds, and did some complicated move Damon didn't even know how to describe, landing on her feet. She only wobbled a little and then a smile spread across her face. Everyone burst into applause, Damon included._

_With her move—something about a Yurchenko named after this Chinese gymnast—she easily got into second place._

_Already, she was smoking the competition._

_Her second event was the floor. Damon knew Emily was going to have a kick-ass routine before he even saw it. Ever since he read about her performance on the floor two years ago, he knew that she was just going to get better and he wasn't mistaken. Her routine was not as flirty and fun as Kaylie Cruz's was, nor as graceful and artistic as Payson's, but it was powerful. Her tumbling—he did know that much about gymnastics, at least—was full of fire and, each time, she landed perfectly inside the white line._

_By the end of her routine, everyone was cheering. The judges didn't seem to think it was as perfect as everyone else did. When her score came in, sending her into third place, there was an uproar. _

"_That's not fair," the woman next to Damon said. "She deserved so much higher for that last tumbling run!"_

"_The sport is getting stricter by the day," another said, shaking their head._

_Damon, for his part, booed as loudly as everyone else._

_They couldn't take off any points for her balance beam routine, though, considering it was as perfect as it could possibly be. Damon never once saw her wobble and the people next to him seemed to think her routine was particularly advanced, considering their surprised gasps as she did certain moves. He thought it all looked complicated, but she did everything with confidence and assurance. Never once did she seem to break her concentration._

_She moved up to second place. Either way, she would get a medal: silver or gold, depending on how well her next routine went. _

_"Come on, Em," Damon breathed._

_He couldn't wait until her last apparatus came up: the uneven bars. It took a while, and the Chinese gymnast, Ya-Wen Chen, took the first place position with her own bar routine. It was a matter of a few tenths of a point higher. If Emily just got a few more tenths of a point added to her score, she'd beat her._

_And she would get gold._

_Damon believed in her one hundred perfect._

_Finally, it was her turn._

"_And now Emily Kmetko on the uneven bars!"_

_Damon's eyes were immediately drawn to Emily. She withdrew from Payson's hug and stretched. She kept her eyes trained ahead of her, straight ahead of her, and Damon knew she was focusing. She let her arms fall to her side, then walked over to the chalk bin. She chalked up her hands and feet once more—for the last time that day—and stood on the mat in front of the uneven bars._

_She raised her hands above her head and then she began._

_She started on the lower bar, easily rotating around it. She gathered momentum, then released the bar, flying through the air and catching the high bar. She rotated around the bar easily, gaining speed. She released and caught the bar, then swung into a perfect handstand. His heart skipped a beat every time she let go of the bar—he couldn't help remembering that time when he had let them both into the locked Rock and she had fallen off the bars and he almost thought she had been seriously injured—but each time, she got hold of the bar again. She moved from high to low, low to high, almost effortlessly. _

_When it came time for her dismount, she let go of the bar, twisting in the air once, twice, three times, and landed on her feet. _

"_YES!" Damon yelled. "YES!"_

_She had done it._

_She had won._

* * *

He watches Emily blink a few times, as if she didn't expect him to come—although why wouldn't she? She should know that he's still in love with her—and then she stands up.

"Damon," she says and his name leaving her lips is the best thing he's heard in a long time.

"Emily," he repeats.

One second ago, he was several feet away from her, and now, suddenly, he has her in his arms. She feels tiny against his frame, but not fragile. No, Emily could never feel fragile. She is warm, pressed up against him, and she nestles into his embrace quickly. He cradles her, hands rubbing her back soothingly, as she winds her arms up around his neck. They stay like this for who knows how long and he knows that he doesn't want to let go of her. After two years without holding her, he never wants to let go.

"I missed you," she whispers against him, so softly that he can barely hear her. "God, I missed you."

"I missed you too," Damon responds and presses his lips to Emily's forehead. Her skin is smooth and soft under his lips and he closes his eyes before pulling away.

He knows he has to pull away sometime, so he does so reluctantly. He looks down at the medal swinging from her neck, that beautiful glint of gold, and he thinks his smile might split his face. Emily watches him, curiosity all over her face.

"I knew it," he says. "I knew you'd come home with gold."

And he was there when she did. He remembers the smile that spread across her face as "Star-Spangled Banner" played, celebrating her and her victory. He watched as she stood on that pedestal, the gold medal dangling from her neck, dressed in her U.S. sweatsuit, and thrust the bundle of roses high up into the air. She smiled down at Payson who grinned back, holding up her own bundle of flowers.

"You _did_," Emily responds.

The joy in her face is so infectious that he can't help but tighten his arms around her waist. "You are amazing," he says. "Olympic champion, you."

"Like you're one to talk," Emily retorts. "You're the one who has the bestselling album and two tours under their belt. Not to mention numerous fangirls."

Damon easily slides back into their banter, almost like time hasn't passed at all, but he can't help wishing that they were alone. Being so close to her, his arms still wrapped around her waist, her hands idly playing with the hair on the back of his neck... it's almost too much to handle. He wants to kiss her breathless, kiss her so that she can't walk.

He wants her, but first he needs to know if she wants him back.

And besides, he can't exactly kiss her breathless in front of the Eiffel Tower, people milling around them in every direction.

"Let's go somewhere," he says, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "I wouldn't want anyone recognizing the Olympic champion and crying for an autograph and interrupting our time." He smiles. "I want you all to myself."

He feels Emily quiver beneath his hands.

"Okay."

–

They sit together on a blanket in the middle of a clear patch of grass. Emily is on the other side of the blanket, looking at him with some unidentifiable emotion.

"Damon Young," she says. He doesn't breathe. "I don't want it to be over."

Damon lets out his breath all in a rush.

"Me neither."

Emily nods, but apparently she's not finished talking yet. "Let me finish," she says, sliding across the blanket so that she is right next to him. Her fingers are on either side of his face and she makes him face her. She makes him look in her eyes and he sees nothing but honesty. "Two years ago, I thought it was over, but I didn't want it to be. And this meeting—I wasn't sure it would happen, but I knew I wanted it to. And I knew that if it didn't, I would regret letting you go for the rest of my life."

He doesn't believe that she would think he wouldn't show up. After everything, he thought that she'd know he wasn't letting her go. He never did and he never would. He's hers, whether he likes it or not. He opens his mouth to say this, but her touch on his face, fingers sliding down his cheek, stops his words right in their tracks.

"I was so worried you wouldn't come, but here you are. Here we are." A smile crosses her face. "So much has changed, but one thing hasn't."

"And what's that?"

He tries not to hope too hard.

"I love you," she says.

God, he's waited _so _long to hear her say those words.

"I love you too," he says immediately. He lets the pieces of bread he's been tearing up—nerves had been getting the better of him—fall to the ground and looks at her.

That smile on her face looks like it could split her face in half at any time. "Well, then," she says. "I guess we're not going to have to say goodbye again."

"Sorry," Damon says. He leans in close to her, just breathing her in, and their lips are just a few inches apart. "I won't let you say goodbye."

"Good."

Their eyes meet. Emily cups Damon's face in her hands—exactly like he used to do, exactly like he wants to do every single day now—and kisses him fiercely, passionately. He can't believe that they're finally kissing, after all their waiting, and now they don't have to wait any longer. Damon smiles against Emily's lips as Emily presses herself to him, trying to get closer. Damon trails a hand up Emily's arm, twines it in her curled hair, and pulls her closer to him.

The kiss never seems to end. Damon sweeps his tongue across her lips and swipes it across her own as she gasps into his mouth. His free hand, the one not running through her hair, rests on the small of her back. Emily's hands had slipped from either side of his face down to his waist and now she lowers one hand even more, sliding under his shirt and up.

"Emily," he breathes against her lips as her hand stills against his stomach.

"Mm?" she whispers.

"I think we'd better relocate this somewhere else," he says. He pulls away as she stiffens slightly and meets her eyes, noticing how she looks slightly panicked. He amends: "If you want to."

"I want to," Emily says.

"Are you sure?"

Emily laughs. "I'm completely sure."

"All right."

He presses one last kiss against her lips and stands up, extending a hand down to her. She takes it and stands up, wrapping an arm around his waist. She leans up.

"Let's go," she whispers into his ear.

Damon doesn't object to that. He puts his arm around her shoulders, both of them making their way down the hill. He's aware of Emily leaning up against him, their steps in sync, the way her hand slides up and down his side... he's aware of everything.

He smiles and kisses her hair as they reach the car.

"My lady," he says, opening the door to her with a flourish.

Emily laughs and enters the car. Damon gets into the driver's seat and pulls away from the parking space. He is pretty sure Emily feels the same way, but he knows one more thing:

He wants the coming night to go on forever.

_End._

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked Damon's POV. Please review and tell me what you thought? Thanks!


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